One Moment
by BandGeek58407
Summary: AU teenage story. I only ever saw them in passing. I never really knew them. And now they will never be the same. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: Not mine

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

One Moment

The words sound murky to my ears, like they're floating delicately through the ocean of thick air. Deprived of clarity, unintelligible—they're like life has been these past few days. Behind my back, the oaken pew feels distant, as does the dense, burgundy carpet beneath my shoes.

Although I know they're focused ahead, I feel my consciousness being choked by the eyes of those around me. I don't belong here. I didn't know the boy beyond his name and face, beyond a casual introduction in the hectic passing of time. We had different classes, different friends, different lifestyles. I could barely pick him out of a crowd.

What was his favorite color? I couldn't tell you. His hobby of choice? I couldn't tell you. His aspirations, the name of the first girl he kissed, his greatest fear? I couldn't tell you. So why am I, the intruder, the interloper, sitting here among his closest relations while they lament, mourn his passing?

I knew the other two in the car better, relatively at least. But they aren't here, unable to bear it either physically or mentally. Cruelly that fatal flip flung the three comrades onto three separate levels of living—dead and alive, and the agonizing place in between. We won't know how badly she'll be once the induced coma fades. What happened to her, exactly, to make that necessary? How will she react? Will she even remember?

Perhaps scars will be there to remind her, even if she doesn't, to throw spikes into that part of her being. The other boy, the driver, I know has cuts across his visage, slices that bleed crimson guilt. The Tuesday following the accident, he forced himself to go to school; I saw him in third period. As far as I knew, the injuries should have clotted by then, but throughout class, they shed slim tears of blood. His guilt pervaded everything: red blots fell on the cover of the history textbook, rust-tinted smudges sat openly on the corners of his homework. Formerly talkative and prone to throwing out obscure facts, he instead stared at his notes and bled.

Back in the sanctuary, my eyes sting as the large congregation trudges tragically to the narthex, to their cars. In their separate bubbles, mingling seems to be impossible—they hold, comfort, and support each other out the doors. I can't find it in myself to join them. My feet transport me to one of many underused sofas lining the large room's perimeter and take to staring at the cups of cheap lemonade the church staff puts out at events like this. No one has taken any.

Soon I'm the only one left, and the high-noon sun casts bizarre shapes through the stained glass. A door creaks, and I remove my gaze from the floor.

"Connor." He stands just beyond the doorway to the small kitchen in the corner. Even from a distance, the dark lines on his cheeks are all too visible. Slowly he shuffles out of his haven and plops down beside me.

"You were here?" I say carefully with a quick side glance at him. Subconsciously his hands twitch up to the scabs and try to scratch them off. I have to jerk my hand back, as it was halfway up to his face; I can't stop him.

"Y-yeah," he mumbles, eyes still straight ahead. "I, uh…I just…couldn't go in." We sit in silence for a long time, so long that after a while, I hear a custodian's vacuum begin to distantly approach from one of the adjoining hallways. "What, uh…about…?" Fingers now sifting through his tousled, light brown hair, his words seem to drop into an abyss. He finally looks at me—the blue eyes haven't changed, only what they see.

And I can't answer his implicit question. The janitor is suctioning dust and language; instead I somewhat shakily place a hand on his shoulder, sighing.

All at once he stops moving, sniffing, and before I realize what happened, his face is in my shoulder, real tears flowing down my suit. There are things to be said but I cannot see their worth. I hold him, sighing heavily once more as I look toward the heavens. This is why I came.

XXX

**For me, sometimes I can't talk about stuff. I have to write about it. And this is what resulted. **

**September 27, 2008: We won't ever forget. **


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